


My Hand In Your Hair

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-24
Updated: 2004-04-24
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: late-night-contemplations





	My Hand In Your Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

My Hand In Your Hair

### My Hand In Your Hair

#### by Nicholas

  


Title: My Hand In Your Hair  
Author: Nicholas 

E-Mail: 

Pairing: M/K  
Rating: PG   
Category: Angst 

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, Walter Skinner and all the other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. 

Notes: Beta'd by Gaby. Thanks. 

\-- 

It's your lips that touch mine when you allow them to. I feel them, their warmth, their dampness. I feel you through them. Just now, sitting here, my hand in your hair and watching you sleep while I should be working. This is everything we are, isn't it? In this bed, the sheets only covering half of your body, the dim light, the warmth of the summer night's air, our scent in it, the quietness, the peacefulness of it all. It is much more us than when we are talking, trying to communicate, just like Cosmopolitan always proclaims, and we are failing, always failing, again and again at communication. There are angry words, the glitter in our eyes, violence, the blood spraying from your lips and nose. And I stand shocked, deep within me I am shocked but I know I'll repeat my actions. Again. And again. There is so much anger, so much frustration, so many negative emotions - how could we even attempt communication when we know it will only become another bout of accusations, glares and blood on my hands. Communication just isn't made for us. But here, like this, with my hand in your hair, it feels real. For once it does. And it feels good. 

You would probably wear one hell of a smirk if you could read my thoughts right now and I'd smirk right back at you even though I would probably be hurt, but it doesn't matter. Not much anyway because I would push that away, leave it to simmer. We always do. 

I know what people mean about communication being the key but in our case where every attempt at communication is destroying the thin walls of our sanctuary we have managed to built, it simple wouldn't work. Too many defences, too much past. And so we swallow it down. Every time. You swallow your hurt and I swallow mine and we live for moments such as this one. What does it help to talk? What does it do other than renew the hate? We forget about the pain when we are here like this. I really believe we do. We bury it deep down. Sometimes there still is that flicker of guilt and anger, it exists, but we have set this unspoken rule that our relationship, both of our lives, both of our identities are to be kept hidden, not even touching one another. We are not enemies when we are in this room. We are lovers. 

We live for the peace, for the quietness of our bedroom, for the sheets around us in the darkness of night shielding us from every intruding thought. We live. We make love. And kiss. And usually by midnight you are out of the door with a goodbye and a smile. It's rare, becoming rarer still, that you allow yourself to fall asleep, allow yourself the vulnerability of lying down with anyone anyone but yourself. It is what lovers do, I am surprised to notice. For once we are normal, 'standard'. My dry chuckle disturbs the thick silence. It is absurd. To consider, to even consider this situation with an objective voice, it is absurd. I cherish them though, these moments when I am allowed to watch you, study you, fantasize. 

I do fantasize. Worse than every teenage girl I dream of having a family with you, Alex. I dream of living together, sleeping together, breathing together. I dream of waking up with your arms around me. I dream of watching you drink my coffee in the morning and smile when my hand touches your bare chest. I dream of reading a few pages before we fall asleep, in companionable silence. I fantasize about it because imagination is the only escape I have these days from the wilderness we call reality. 

Oh, I am far from delusional, I know it won't ever happen and, although that thought hurts, I know we have no chance of making it work. We can only enjoy it as long as it lasts - before we die, before we go, before we turn on each other outside of this room to do our job. Before the other, the so separate identity is bound to take over, since it is all destined to follow an order such as that. This is where reality steps into this sanctuary with a cynical smirk permanently attached to its lips. This isn't romance, this isn't poetry. This is nothing for eternity. It cannot be. It is not supposed to be that. Both of us know it. And contrary to most beliefs it doesn't sweeten the moments left but rather leaves a layer of distance on my heart, on my face, on me. 

With every time we meet, kiss, make love, with every time I see your eyes I shrink further away from you, shrink back into a shell, into myself, into a place inside of me that doesn't hurt quite as much, doesn't hurt quite as strongly. So I expect once our time to part has come I will walk away intact. It is not fair to you but I feel you doing the same so we are even. Your lips are not quite as hot as they used to be, your moans and cries not quite as passionate, your eyes not quite as open. It is the prelude to the inevitable farewell - a lengthy, slow dance, meant to keep us sane and to prevent us from losing ourselves in a fantasy that won't ever be more than exactly that. A drawn out afterglow, meant to keep us safe. It is what we do. We limit ourselves to make it hurt less once the time has come. 

These moments have already become too rare. My hand in your hair and you mumble softly in your sleep, pushing your head into the caress, seeking out my hand, the contact, the warmth of it. My sigh is almost too loud in the room, I will miss this, the kisses, the touches, the looks. I will miss you, lover, beloved. Once I am back on my own, pacing within the lonely four prison walls I call life, I will remember the sweetness of the moments, our secret hiding place. At least we won't deprive ourselves of the memories. And nobody will take them from us either. 

Both of us feel the time is drawing close and maybe even this is already the last night we will ever spend together, the roaring thunder of impending danger is loud in our ears and we steel ourselves for the things that need to be done. Only a few more minutes like this, only a few more days with your presence near, with you in my arms, your head on my shoulder and just standing still and hugging each other. A last bit of strength drawn for the journey, the one that both of us will have to walk. Only a few more minutes to memorize you, every aspect of you, every last one. 

My dream, my fantasy will be a bubble bursting. It is what I feel and not even my greatest hopes can diminish the feeling of finality and hopelessness that keeps me captive. You won't be my prince in shining armor after all. You will be a distant memory once we are fighting. A memory I draw my last strength from maybe, but only a memory nevertheless. It is our fight. It is our destiny. And this, all of this, is only an interlude that we have chosen to forget about the real world for a while. Too good, too sweet to be preceding a tragedy of this magnitude, a tragic catastrophe so great. Sometimes I feel that we are mere figures on someone's drawing board, mere characters crafted and designed for amusement, to be watched by those who are delighted by our antics and our sorrow. This is too surreal to be reality or maybe the clear borders are becoming muddled the nearer we step to the edge and thereby the end. 

Maybe this is our last night. Maybe it has been our last dance of seduction and sensuality, the last minutes of peace and quiet, the last time that there has been an 'us'. But it is good. With my hand in your hair, your black strands sleep-tousled and your skin tinged with a rosy glow. I try to hold back the sad smile that tries to sneak onto my face. But I can't. I have always known about the roles we are destined to play, about the wickedness of finality and being those we are meant to be. We are the keys to something that exceeds the simplicity of human life and opens doors to the complexity of the universe.I thought I'd be too numb to feel anything anymore upon that discovery, but not yet. There's still the spark in me that hasn't given up on something this pure, yet tainted, on something this simple, yet most important. 

I scoot down to lie next to you and draw you close to my chest, closing my eyes as I inhale the scent of your hair, of your skin, of you. You press close to me in your sleep, seeking out my body to keep me near. I memorize all of that, for later reference, a second, a third, maybe fourth 'you' to be saved and catalogued in my mind and heart. And I can't go just yet. I need to make it more painful for both of us by staying. Just as you are. If there is supposed to be the final farewell, the one ending it all then it won't be initiated by us. We are preparing for it, but we hang on as long as we can. So we hold each other at night and try to feel the other one near, breathing with us, in us. 

I drift off to sleep, dreaming of you, lover, of us and how we need to survive a little while longer. How we simply sleep here tonight, in our sanctuary one more night, and how dawning day will bring a set of challenges that brings us too close to the edge. A little while longer, lover, a little while longer. 

~ The End   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Nicholas


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